Waiting for Minor Musical Importance

The pathetic wave gray.  Bleachy sidewalk.
As I am waiting, which I am,
the trouble
          with waiting.

My mouth is a line. The rest
of my person is not a sound

I had not heard from you. Granulating.
Quickly I became a garble and undistinguished
from the back

like a prom of kids
or a goose meadow – individual
nothing.

And then a fiddle,
meaningful.
Then any other instrument.

by Niina Pollari

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